“Food,” it sang on a plaintive, rising note. “Food. Food.”
He flipped a triangular nut with a thick brown shell to it from a shimmering bowl beside his table. The bird caught it, cracked the shell, ate the oily meat within and then scratched itself vigorously behind one ear, chortling with enjoyment and muttering:
“Yummie, yummie, yummie.”
Then it began to sing quietly, an ancient tune with a cadence that blended with the tumbling water; and as it sang, it danced, wings and tail and head making a complex harmony with the music. A De’ming stepped forward silently, swept up the shell, and returned to her endless waiting.
The bird serves a purpose beyond the aesthetic, Sajir told himself. It reminds me that political supremacy is a literalized metaphor, rather than an aspect of the natural order itself. To the bird, I am merely a source of nourishment and a familiar presence, so evoking an unselfconscious affection. Any shopkeeper or technician could have a similar relationship with one of its breed. Yet if I were to die, it would grieve and search for me.
“What is your estimation of the Terran, this Jeremy Wainman?” Sajir went on aloud, his pronunciation considerably closer to the phonetic pattern of English than Daiyar’s.
“There are fascinating differences in metabolism. In terms of gross anatomy, less is obvious, but one notes—”
“I did not request discourse on the nature of the species, with which I am somewhat familiar, but an evaluation of the individual,” Sajir said gently.
Daiyar adopted an apologetic stance, head slightly down and hands open with the fingers curled.
“Highly intelligent, Supremacy; not merely in the abstract, but in terms of rapid adaptation to fluid circumstances. Surprisingly well informed concerning the past of the Real World, though with amusing gaps. Capable of great determination. Rather demonstrative—I understand this is typical of the Wet Worlders—though somewhat naïve, and oddly charming in a rather innocent manner. This contrasts with extreme physical strength and prowess, comparable in overall terms to that of a Thoughtful Grace, though differing in detail.”
“Ah. And my offspring, you say, has formed an erotic and companionate pair-bonding with this Terran.”
Sajir brought his hands together beneath his chin, back-to-back with the digits touching: data have been registered, but their extraordinary nature resists assimilation.
Or, as the vaz-Terranan would put it: “No, really?”
Daiyar adopted a stance that implied the existential inexplicability at the core of existence and amplified: “He would not be my choice of an erotic partner, even in the short term. The physical differences are . . . startling to some extent.”
She shuddered delicately and went on, “Yet I believe his statements to that effect to be sincere. I am not altogether sure whether he accurately represents the sentiments of . . . your offspring. Their relationship might be merely experimental on her part—an adulthood spent as an itinerant contractual Coercive is not likely to lead to fine discrimination in such matters.”
“Intriguing. Most intriguing.”
Judging from the report, I think the Terran’s statements are accurate. Odd. One would expect Deyak—Teyud, as she calls herself now—to be emphatically negative in her sentiments toward the vaz-Terranan. Of course, those were a different faction of the vaz-Terranan, but how many would make such a distinction? This shows that she has unusual flexibility of mind, and is unswayed by preconceptions.
“I suspect that Deyak will bend her earnest endeavors to making the seizure of Jeremy Wainman an action which Prince Heltaw regrets. Her mother was also inclined to pursue revenge.”
“Revenge is, after all, Supremacy, one of life’s pleasures. Apart from near-ideal recreational coitus, there are few elementary satisfactions more keen; though I grant that victory in a hard-fought session of the Game of Life approaches it.”
“To be sure. Yet Vowin was often unreasonable in its pursuit and her childhood indicated that Deyak has inherited this trait.”
“I anticipate stressful experiences for Jeremy Wainman if he falls under the control of Heltaw sa-Veynau again,” Daiyar said, with a tinge of regret.
“True. Prince Heltaw is a man given to impulsive judgment when subject to frustration . . . which indicates a possible course of action.”
He moved a finger, and a clerk slid forward. “Draw up a rescript, requiring the listed individuals to make immediate Apology and Reparation. This to be individual only.”
He heard a very slight sigh of satisfaction from Adwa sa-Soj. She had been advising such an action ever since her sibling Notaj had left on his mission . . . and he had been advising it for some time.
As he put it, the bureaucracy has grown over the machinery of the state as does the shell of a sessile-stage canal shrimp, leaving it frozen to the ground, unable to do anything but wave its buttocks in the air. Yet one does not necessarily produce good sculpture with a blunt and heavy instrument . . . or even a fine sword.
“An excellent order, Supremacy,” she said. “It was time that nest of venomous invertebrates was sterilized.”
“The deaths I have decreed will not cleanse it. You Thoughtful Grace are too confident in the utility of hammer blows. It will merely throw the covertly hostile portions of the bureaucracy into confusion for a crucial period of time, and preoccupy them with their internal quarrels. That, however, will be sufficient.”
She nodded, unconsciously touching the hilt of her sword.
Ah, he thought. If only that sharp simplicity were as useful as you think! Will my offspring’s share of the Thoughtful Grace genome incline her to that outlook? I have communed with many of my predecessors who expressed rueful regret for a too-ready resort to blades. Of course, there are also several who regret most bitterly their excessive trust in their own subtlety. At times a blade thrust through the eye will negate the most cunning brain and the most intricate plotting.
“Go personally,” he said. “Witness the deaths, and publicize them. Answer no queries, except to specify that this is the Tollamune will.”
He went on to the clerk, “And a Rescript, for general publication, listing the information contained in the one which Notaj sa-Soj bore.”
The second in command of the Sword leaned close. “Naming Deyak sa-Sajir Designated Successor, Supremacy? That will force his hand.”
“Just so, Adwa sa-Soj. But I wish to force it emphatically. Let the Rescript name her as co-occupant of the Ruby Throne; there is precedent for a dual rule, particularly where a reigning Emperor wished to establish the succession beyond doubt.”
The Thoughtful Grace blinked, considered, then slowly smiled. “You seek to press him to precipitate action, anticipating gross errors of judgment on his part?”
“Just so. He is a man of some cunning and skill, but far less prescient when he acts in haste. In conjunction with demanding Apology of half my ministers, it will engender sentiments of the most desperate haste.”
Jeremy Wainman hadn’t known you could really scream until your throat was raw. He thought he tasted blood from his lungs and throat, not just his lips and tongue; the pain of the creature’s beak itself faded rapidly, but that just made it possible for him to grasp how absolutely wretchedly awful he felt all over the rest of himself.
“I am severely annoyed, man of the Wet World,” Prince Heltaw sa-Veynau said, and flicked the pain-serpent back so that it coiled around his forearm.
The weirdest part of it all was that it was true. The Martian bigwig didn’t seem to be beside himself with fury, or like a sadist getting his rocks off. He merely looked annoyed, like someone who had a dog shit on his front doorstep and then stepped in it.
Trying to stand erect was too much effort, although slumping forward against the chains that held his arms above his head hurt just as much. There were six reddish wounds on his chest, and when the last of them were made he’d thought his heart would tear loose from the cavity that held it. Blood drooled down from his bitten lips, and other wa
stes made a hard stink in the sterile atmosphere of the clinic. Despite the humiliation, Jeremy was glad of that. Martians had much better sphincter control than Terrans; Jeremy’s wetting himself had probably convinced the Prince that he was going too far and stood in danger of killing his hostage.
“I am even more severely annoyed with Doctor Daiyar,” Heltaw said. “In the event of her capture, I shall begin as I have with you, then progress to all the time-tested techniques, combined with several innovations that have occurred to me.”
He turned to one of his black-clad Coercives. “Is the recording adequate?”
“It is clear, Superior,” the man said.
He tapped the drab reddish bird—it looked like a monochrome cockatoo with extra-large nostrils—on the head. It opened its beak and screamed in Jeremy’s voice, with occasional babbling and pleading mixed in, all of it in English. He’d retained enough control to keep to a language Heltaw wouldn’t know.
The household trooper tapped the bird again and it cut off. “Food?” it said hopefully, fluttering its wings, and he tossed it something from a belt-pouch.
Heltaw looked again at the copy of the Vermillion Rescript lying on Daiyar’s desk.
“Make copies, and append the following message: ‘Deyak sa-Sajir-dassa-Tomond, I acknowledge your accession. Nevertheless, the Terran will be subjected to further and lethal excruciation unless you consent to immediate and intensive negotiation over our political differences, and do so prior to consultation with your father. Location of negotiations is to be as follows . . .’ ”
The man bowed his head, hazel eyes impassive behind the slit in his headdress. “I anticipate no positive result from such negotiations, Superior,” he said. “The Supremacy has checkmated us. Flight, or perhaps unconditional submission to spare your lineage, at least?”
“Negotiations are not my actual intent. I plan decisive and situation-reversing treachery.”
“Ah!” the man said, sounding pleased. “Yes, for such stakes, the inconvenience of damage to one’s reputation for reliability in the future would be worthwhile. A reputation can be rebuilt over time; dissolution is proverbially final.”
Jeremy raised his eyes and glared at Heltaw with dull hatred. Can I provoke him into killing me? he thought. Half regretfully he concluded, No. He’s just too damned cold-blooded . . . but he’s not smart enough to sucker Teyud!
Heltaw looked at him again. “And see to the Terran. At present, it is of some importance. I anticipate with some pleasure an alteration in this circumstance.”
A gesture of contempt, like a man flicking something from his fingers. “The half-breed is evidently poorly socialized, remaining attached to its toys.”
My girlfriend is so going to kick your ass, Jeremy thought.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Encyclopedia Britannica, 20th Edition
University of Chicago Press, 1998
MARS: Martian Psychology
In discussing Martian psychology, it is crucial but extremely difficult to distinguish between the cultural and the biological. This is far more so than is the case on Earth; we have thousands of separate cultures, and Mars only one; we share a common genetic heritage with all other Earth-humans, but there are definite if subtle differences in “human nature” between h. sapiens sapiens and h. sapiens martensis. We can build on the common features that cut across the grain of cultural differences; on Mars, with its monoculture, they reinforce each other. Is the detached, ironic positivism that characterizes Martians a matter of genes or of memes, their learned equivalents? Is their preoccupation with intellectual puzzles and chesslike games? Martians themselves find the question troubling, now that they have a separate species—closely related, but distinct—as a basis of comparison.
Mars, Dvor Il-Adazar
Abandoned sections and pits, Northwest Quadrant,
May 27, 2000 AD
“We have lost only two personnel,” Notaj sa-Soj said, looking around as he raised the glow-stick. “That is an extremely moderate casualty rate for a rapid transit of such difficult passages. I grant that we are not yet in the Tower of Harmonic Unity, but we approach the endgame.”
Teyud nodded, frowning slightly. It was true that they hadn’t suffered unduly, especially when they’d had to cross several large caverns in the geothermal zone—the heat and chemicals added to the water made for a life-rich environment. Now they stood at the base of a great, semicircular staircase. It was plain stonemelt but glistening with trapped crystals fed to the beasts that had digested and regurgitated it so long ago; this had been a landing stage for barges using the water-distribution system when the aquifer was higher.
Two tunnels gave off on either side of the stairs at the lower level; another opened at the top, twenty feet high and twice that across. The thing in her head told her that it was a main artery, driving straight south toward the inhabited center of the city.
She frowned again. Normally she was quite at home in underground passages—any city on the Real World had them in plenty. Now there was a sense of oppression in the air, as if something terrible approached.
Perhaps it is the Invisible Crown once again, she thought.
Something fluttered in the portal at the head of the stairs. A dozen dart rifles were raised; it was a message-recorder bird, but such had been used as carriers for assassination before.
“No,” Teyud said. “Let it live.”
She held out her arm, and she felt a strong clench of claws through the leather of her glove as the bird settled on her wrist. It whistled and cocked an eye at her; she breathed on it, and it opened and closed its beak meditatively. Its eyes rolled up in its head for an instant and then it croaked:
“Identifed: Deyak sa-Sajir-dassa-Tomond, current Designated Successor and co-Emperor as of receipt of rescript on date—”
Notaj’s eyebrows shot up as it specified place and time. Teyud heard herself make a slight sound of surprise; the Thoughtful Grace and his command all made a field-obeisance, pushing the right hand down with its palm to the floor and bending a knee. The bird continued its message.
“Communication from: Genomic Prince Heltaw sa-Veynau. Content: Part one, recorded excruciation of vaz-Terranan individual Jeremy Wainman.”
Teyud’s face might have been stone as she listened to the screams. And the English words “Don’t! It’s a trap! Don’t!”
Notaj and the other Thoughtful Grace listened impassively, an ear folding back here and there when the volume rose too high—it was a messenger bird of the first quality, with an impressive tonal range and large lung capacity for its size.
“Content: Part two, verbal message from Genomic Prince Heltaw sa-Veynau.”
The grating, impersonal voice of the bird itself shifted. Now it spoke a smoothly melodious court dialect, archaic Demotic strongly flavored with the High Speech.
“Deyak sa-Sajir-dassa-Tomond, I acknowledge your accession. Nevertheless—”
There was another message appended to the end of it, an Imperial proclamation in her father’s voice raising her to the status of co-Emperor, and another announcing the apology of a very, very long list of senior personnel. Then the bird shook itself, groomed a few feathers, and looked at her hopefully: “Food?”
Notaj held out his arm; the recorder hopped over to his wrist and accepted a ration biscuit.
“Blah!” it said, but steadily devoured the hard-baked mix of starch, fruit, and nuts.
“Elevating you to the position of co-Emperor is a move of considerable cunning,” Notaj said, absently stroking the recorder’s crest with a finger. “It has driven Heltaw to the last extremity of foolishness. You have only to reach the Tower of Harmonic Unity, and he will have no alternative but to make Apology in the hope that his lineage will be spared.”
“Blah!” the recorder mumbled again, dropping crumbs on the ancient pavement, then launched itself into the air and headed back to its nest.
“Or he may rebel,” Teyud said, watching it go.
“That
would be equally foolish,” Notaj said. “His own Coercives would be unlikely to support such a move for long . . . perhaps some of them, those of long-affiliated lineages, but the remainder would defect.”
Teyud smiled crookedly. “If my father were in a similar position, would you or any of your lineage defect?”
“No,” Notaj said. “But we were socialized as Imperial retainers, and we are of the Thoughtful Grace. His are neither.”
“Do not underestimate the potential of long affiliation to a dominant lineage,” she said. “Particularly in an isolated area such as Heltaw’s main holdings on the slopes below Aywandis.”
Jeremy had told her of wars on Terra where hundreds of thousands, millions, had thrown themselves into certain destruction, even accepting compulsory enrollment as the Terran equivalent of Coercives.
Entire populations behaving in the manner of the most committed partisans of a lineage, she thought with wonder. The Real World does not function so, and this is a positive factor. Civilization here would have destroyed itself many times over if rulers could order such waste without mass defection.
“Also, he may flee to Aywandis and raise his rebellion there, where many are accustomed to his immediate rule,” she said. “Regrettably, secessionism has succeeded all too often in recent millennia. This would prompt many either to support him or to remain neutral and not withdraw their contributions, lest they be caught on the losing side.”
Notaj inclined his head. “A possibility. Imperial control of Aywandis is not as secure as it might be, though better than it was earlier in the current Supremacy’s reign. As soon as you are safely returned to the Tower, we must take precautions—perhaps the dispatch of troops, and the publication of documents laying out the circumstances.”
“We will not be returning immediately to the Tower,” Teyud said. “A diversion to the location specified by Prince Heltaw is necessary before my return to my father.”
Notaj’s face went blank with surprise. “That would be a less than optimal strategy!” he said. “Heltaw can recoup his position only by somehow gaining possession of you. We must at all costs prevent this.”
In the Courts of the Crimson Kings Page 28
